


the sky will fall upwards while your life will crumble like a memory

by netherfriends



Series: and if my skin turns black and my knees start to ache will it be alright [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Confusion, Corpses, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Graphic Description of Corpses, I Wrote This In School, Inspired by Richard Siken, Poetry, Sort Of, WOO HOO, all not really good things, featuring:, ghostbur as his own person, i'm back with the cryptic junk again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netherfriends/pseuds/netherfriends
Summary: there is a body in a button room, mouth open as though to finish a song. maggots and flies surround it, eating away at the rot. the body of a man does not move, but it appears to known something.and the flowers will grow and wilt and you will live and die but the man knows something. it will never tell you.
Series: and if my skin turns black and my knees start to ache will it be alright [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149365
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	the sky will fall upwards while your life will crumble like a memory

there is a body in a button room, mouth open as though to finish a song. maggots and flies surround it, eating away at the rot. the body of a man does not move, but it appears to known something.

and the flowers will grow and wilt and you will live and die but the man knows something. it will never tell you.

you are dying and your friends are dead and something is pounding in your head but the corpse knows something, but it won’t tell you.

someone is tired, tired, tired of living but will never be clutched by death. their body is aching and racked with pain but the man’s body is being eaten away and it knows something but it will never tell you.

a symphony plays through the room, broken and choppy but filled with life nonetheless. if you strain your ears, you can hear it rattling through the crater. 

and you wonder, but you won’t say anything. and the man knows why, but he won’t tell you.

and you stare at the corpse, and feel like you have done something wrong, wrong, wrong. like won a game against someone you know wasn’t playing.

and your heart beats, and your chest stings, and your skin is ripping apart in front of you, but the corpse never truly knew anything but he won’t tell you that.

you are dead, you are the corpse. you know something, but you won’t tell. you will never know anything, but you won’t tell. 

you have no shadow, no memories, no soul. you are merely a piece of man broken off to fit a too different body. you can not play along to the game, 

you do not remember how to play. 

you have no shadow, and the sunlight shines through your translucent form. you know nothing, but there will be something.

you raise your hand to your face as if to hide it, but the light streamed straight to the bone and you are

  
breaking

**breaking**

breaking

the bones of a nonexistent heart slowly snapping like twigs.

you had not expected this.

the light is no mystery, rather the mystery is that there is something there to keep the light from passing through. ( _ and why won’t it happen to you? _ )

you will call it a beginning, although it is an ending. the home is empty, home no longer.

you stood in the crater, seeing if it changes anything, it does not, it does not. you go back to the corpse who knows nothing, and it tells you that you will never not be anything.

maybe the slugs are getting slower, or your brain is. either way, this is the world.

he does not dream, instead he invents things in his mind to save him from his obliviousness. once, one time he see’s the corpse. his eyes are closed.

_ his eyes are brown _ , you think.

he opens his eyes and they are red.

history repeats itself. somebody says this.

more accurately, history  _ rhymes _ .

everybody needs a place, the little ghost’s should not be inside of someone else.

the body tells the ghost that it’s never been afraid of anything.

the body is dead, it cannot speak.

the body is lying.

the ghost was dreaming.

(the ghost does not dream.)

the woman who the corpse loved (you should love) is trying to drown you. but she will drown too.

a life for a life, but the ghost is already dead.

what will happen?

doesn’t matter.

who am i? i am just an artist.

a disgusting artist, so beware.

i make music, music that will drain you. music that i do not recall. what are the chords? it is lost to time. time is not real, unless you make it, so maybe i do not want it to be real, so therefore there were never any chords in the first place.

a voice, a voice. scratchy and rough and woven together by a broken needle.

“you are not a creature in a body.”

_ i am, i am, this is not my body _ .

you do not say this, for the boy is mourning for someone who you are not. he is mourning, and you have no right to take his ability to mourn away.

he is not naive, you are not naive. his presence causes previously sealed wounds to tear open. no good, no good. 

leave this place, leave this place.

**i cannot**

the government is in shambles.

you blink, there is no more government.

huh.

there’s a moment where you turn away, and you forget where you are. you’ve been living, not living, somewhere else.

you’ve stopped being here, in this place.

welcome to the world.

a _ gain, again, again. _

they destroyed him, but in such a happy way. they gave him a couple memories, said “it’s not the end!”

they destroyed me, in such a painful way. giving me a look, as they walked away, saying “this is the end.”

ghostbur does not like his memories.

for seen does not mean seeing.

those whom we have loved and lost draw near and seem to press.

we still see brown in our dreams, although now with rose colored glasses. 

we will not break them, for you are the truth.

undying ghosts of our existence, remininscenes of who we are, who we were, and who we won’t ever be

i play my sad guitar, my fingers form the shapes, they phase right through them, something is wrong

_ something is wrong _

echoes of the man, reside in him

feeling sick, of myself (like i’m tryna be someone else)

you said you love me exactly as i am.

you know that people are in pain and are acting selfishly because if they don’t, they’ll die. this is not good against evil, this is need against need against need. everyone has too many purposes and everyone is to blame. 

i am being warned and there is no exit.

“we are going to kill the one named tommy.”

why would they tell him this? it doesn’t matter, because he forgets it a couple minutes later.

life is odd, for people all say that you are either good or bad, pure at heart or not. if you do bad things they are forgotten, or you pay for them drastically. if you do good things, they are overshadowed by bad.

see, vanity in stories and such will make you evil. vanity in the real world will make you insane. 

maybe that is what happened to wilbur. you do not know, for you are not him and  _ please stop saying that i’m not him i’m not him-  _

i am me, me, me.

the corpse is gone, although it will know something no one else will.

they blame the bird, the one who assisted the death.

and you want to blame the bird as well. and maybe you did for a short time. but in the real world, everyone has needs, even the birds.

everyone has needs and the weak get tricked and do not survive. or they do.

ghostbur is weak, but he woke up already dead.

welcome to the world.

somebody says you are born in bliss, another says you are born in sin. who are you going to believe?

and suddenly you are ripping through time and space (although it is not real) and the corpse is standing and breathing and staring at you and the man knows something, but he won’t tell you.

you know nothing, but you won’t tell them.


End file.
